


the prettiest thing (i've ever seen)

by CloudCover (RainyForecast)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Fluff, Kid Fic, Kinda, M/M, Meddling French Canadians, Teacher!Sid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 01:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyForecast/pseuds/CloudCover
Summary: Dinnertime conversation at the Gonchars’ tends to circle back again and again to the same topics of conversation, usually thanks to Zhenya’s goddaughters.Tonight it is, as it often is, all about Victoria's kindergarten teacher, Mr. Crosby. Out of whose ass sunshine and rainbows shine, apparently. Or at least that’s Zhenya’s fast and loose interpretation of things.





	

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=25074te)

 

 

 

There’s a special kind of hush to an ice rink in the early morning. The air hangs cold and quiet, and the stillness makes Sid think, in his more irreligious moments, of churches. 

The only sounds are the ones he’s making himself: the satisfying  _ sssskkkksssshhhh  _ of his skates _ ,  _ and a resonant tap each time he plunks an orange cone down on the ice. When he’s satisfied with their arrangement, he stands back for a moment, taking in the empty rink. Centering himself. Sid doesn’t meditate, but this comes close. 

Then, a shuffling and a clatter from the lobby shatter the quiet, and Sid feels the corners of his mouth lift reflexively into a smile. A hum of high, young voices grows louder, and Sid skates to the bench. He’s going to be in high demand in a moment. Tightening skate laces, taping sticks, soothing jitters. Mostly from the parents of his charges, if he’s honest. 

It’s not where he’d ever seen himself ending up, but there’s a kind of happiness to be found here, he thinks.

 

***

 

Dinnertime conversation at the Gonchars’ tends to circle back again and again to the same topics of conversation, usually thanks to Zhenya’s goddaughters. 

Tonight it is, as it often is, all about Victoria's kindergarten teacher, Mr. Crosby. Out of whose ass sunshine and rainbows shine, apparently. Or at least that’s Zhenya’s fast and loose interpretation of things. 

“ _I'm going to_ ** _marry_** Mr. Crosby,” Victoria is currently stating, with all the six-year-old seriousness she has at her disposal. Natalie is glaring at her. 

“ _ You can't, you're too little, _ ” Natalie snaps, but Victoria remains placid. 

“ _ Fine, then Uncle Zhenya can marry  _ Mr. Crosby _ , _ ” she declares. Zhenya chokes into his water glass. He hasn’t exactly had the “so your uncle likes both girls and boys” talk with his goddaughters yet. 

Ksenia is totally laughing at him behind her napkin. Zhenya assumes an air of affronted haughtiness. “ _ I’ll have to meet the maaagical  _ Mr. Crosby _ myself before agreeing to any such plans, _ ” he says to Victoria, who giggles. 

“ _ Oh, I know  _ Mr. Crosby _ well, _ ” Ksenia says, with a Cheshire grin. “ _ Let’s see how smug you feel after meeting him, Zhenya. He’s a prince among men. _ ”

“ _ He is, _ ” Victoria says. “ _ Like in _ Cinderella.” Zhenya rolls his eyes. 

“ _ Sergei, how do you manage this household of interfering matchmakers _ ?”

Ksenia snorts. “ _ He manages nothing _ .” Sergei smiles and toasts her with his glass. 

“ _ I wouldn’t even try, darling. You’re the smart one in this relationship, anyway. _ ” Ksenia blows him a kiss across the table while Natalie wrinkles her nose and pronounces them gross. 

For the millionth time, Zhenya feels a pang at their easy, teasing relationship and lovely family. And for the millionth time, he silently wants.

 

***

 

Sid loves his day job at the elementary school. Really, he does. Or he loves parts of it. The kids? Amazing. They’re cute, they’re emotionally uncomplicated, and they see the world in a crazy, imaginative way that is wonderful to be around. Yesterday, Alex Letang proclaimed himself the King of All Dinosaurs and dubbed Sid “Dinosaur Teacherman,” whatever that meant. A whole recess had been spent in making a cacophony of enthusiastic stomping and screeching noises. Mostly by the kids. Mostly. 

Today, the littlest Gonchar girl claimed she couldn’t do any of her work because her “pencils were sleeping.” She made them a bed out of her pencil box and some Kleenex, and the entire thing was so freaking cute Sid was tempted to let her get away with it. But Sid had a job to do. So he told her that pencil naptime was over and that her pencils were super excited to get to work. She giggled, and in a patiently indulgent tone informed him that “you’re being _really_ _silly_ , Mr. Crosby.” 

Sid loves his job. He just doesn’t like  _ everything _ about his job. After school today all the teachers had a mandatory staff development meeting that, as per the usual, had been unbearably dull and a complete waste of time. He’d had a rude and incredibly uninformed parent email disagreeing with the math curriculum. And the staff room coffeemaker is on the fritz. Sid has a tall stack of grading waiting for him on his desk, he’s slept poorly all week, and he just wants to go home. He shoves the grading in his messenger bag and is nearly,  _ nearly _ out of the building when he’s waylaid by an incredibly frazzled looking Principal Wickenheiser. 

“Sid,” she says, naked relief on her face. “Thank god. My regular Extended Day aide is out with the flu, and the sub desk hasn’t sent me anyone, for some reason. Please, would you be able to spend a few minutes covering Extended Day? Just until everyone is picked up?”

What is Sid going to do, say no? So he ends up supervising the last few kids waiting to be picked up from their after school programs, mentally cursing their parents for their inability to come pick up their spawn on time. Normally, Sid’s a lot more charitable, but, well. It’s been A Day. All he wants out of life, in this moment, is to go home, get into sweatpants, and collapse face first onto the couch. 

The one bright spot in the whole situation is that the two Gonchar girls, Natalie and Victoria, are there. Teachers aren’t supposed to have favorites, and yes, Sid does care deeply for all of his students. He does, however, have students whose personalities he meshes with better than others. He’s taught both of the girls, and they’re both incredibly sweet. Victoria shrieks with delight as soon as she sees him, practically hurtling into him in a flurry of excitement, babbling something about a ladybug she found in the grass earlier. Natalie is quieter, but she sits next to Sid on the bench he’s sitting on, and pulls  _ Frog and Toad _ out of her backpack to read, occasionally asking Sid for help with the bigger words. Meanwhile Victoria buzzes back and forth between Sid and a patch of clover she’s found, bringing Sid slightly squashed clover flowers, one at a time. Sid isn’t quite sure what he’s supposed to do with them, but he thanks her seriously for each one and she beams at him before running off for more with intense purpose. 

One by one, the kids are picked up, and finally, only the Gonchar girls are left. Natalie explains that “Uncle Zhenya” is taking care of them while their parents are out of town, and that he doesn’t get off of work until late. Victoria’s grown tired and fretful, and her colorful barrettes are slipping out of her hair. Sid is gently reclipping her unruly bangs back when Natalie tumbles off the bench with an excited “Uncle Zhenyaaaa!” Sid sighs. Finally. Nice as this was, now he can  _ finally _ go home. 

And then he gets a good look at the man who Natalie is eagerly dragging by the hand towards Sid.

 

***

Oh shit. Oh, damn. 

Should he even think words like that on the grounds of an elementary school?

But. Holy shit. He’s…

He’s absolutely  _ beautiful _ . He’s beautiful and he’s seriously accepting handfuls of weeds from Zhenya’s goddaughter, with the gentlest look in his eyes. Oh fuck, now he’s tenderly fixing her hair barrette. 

Zhenya kinda wants to have his babies. 

And then, at Natalie's welcoming shout, he looks up, and meets Zhenya’s gaze. His eyes are clear and striking and— 

Oh no. Oh  _ no _ . 

Be cool, Zhenya.  Fucking  _ be cool. _

 

***

 

The first thing that registers is the height. Distressed jeans clinging to narrow hips and long, long legs, and a loudly patterned t-shirt skimming a lean torso. He has a pair of aviators hooked into the vee of his collar, and the overall effect should have been douche-y, but it somehow works for him. He’s allowing tiny Natalie to haul him along like he’s a pull-toy, and he’s softly smiling down at her in a way that shouldn’t make Sid’s stomach jump, but does.  

Natalie’s babbling to him in a flood of excited Russian, and Sid hears enough “Mr. Crosby”s to know she’s telling her uncle all about Sid. He nods seriously in response, then looks up at Sid, dark, hooded eyes appraising. Sid feels suddenly awkward and pathetic in his wrinkled button down and the lurid Habs tie he’s gotten as a gift from a student. He stands, and offers a hand to “Uncle Zhenya.” 

“Sidney Crosby. Victoria’s in my class this year, and I taught Natalie last year.”

“Evgeni Malkin. Please to meet.” The guy shakes his hand while continuing his assessment of Sid, head tilted just a bit to the side as though he’s making a decision about something. “Sorry I’m late. Thank you for watch girls.” He has one huge hand resting gently on Natalie’s head, and his verdict on Sid must have been favorable, because his entire face lights up in a smile. And,  _ oh _ . 

Sid needs a minute. 

“No problem. It’s my job,” Sid says, which is stupid, he’s stupid, everything about this is stupid— 

“Girls always talking about you,” Evgeni says. “Mr. Crosby so nice, Mr. Crosby so smart. Very honored to meet famous Mr. Crosby.” His grin looks mischevious now, and his eyes are sparkling with… something. Sid is either being mocked or flirted with, and he’s afraid to guess wrong. 

“Well,” Sid says, and goes to stick his hands in his pockets, remembering his fistful of Victoria’s clover flowers just in time. Evgeni’s smile widens. 

“I'm take care of girls for rest of week. Maybe I see you again.” Sid smiles awkwardly in response.

“Alright, sounds good. Have a good evening, girls. Mr. Malkin.”

“Please. Call me Zhenya,” Evgeni says, and that tone can't be anything but flirty, right? Sid can feel his face flush. 

“Zhenya,” he says, trying to get the pronunciation right. Evgeni, no, Zhenya, blinks and—is he staring at Sid’s mouth? Well. Sid smiles, daring to feel a little hopeful. “Take care, guys.” 

After waving them off, Sid is finally free to leave. He sits in his car for a minute, distracted. Head full of sleepy brown eyes and a generous mouth and the smooth roll of his own name in a Russian accent.

 

***

 

Over the next week, Sid tries not to think too much about Hot Russian Uncle. He doesn't have pick up duty until Friday anyway, and he refuses to swap with Flower just on the off chance of ogling a hot dude. It's a little too pathetic, even for Sid. On Friday, however, it’s his turn to stand outside the school entrance as parents come to pick up their kids. Victoria is the last of his students to be picked up, and Natalie leaves Ms. Chu’s class to stand with her sister. She's just telling Sid all about her book report on hamsters when an impractical looking black sports car pulls up to the curb, and Victoria starts bouncing up and down. 

“Uncle Zhenya! Look, today is Mr. Crosby’s turn, like you were asking about!” she says, as Zhenya unfolds himself from the car. How does he even fit in there, Sid finds himself wondering. 

“Victoria!” Zhenya says quickly, followed by something harried in Russian. 

“Oops,” Victoria says, looking up at Sid. “I wasn't s’posed to say anything.”

Zhenya lopes up, and his ears are burning red. “Girls. Mr. Crosby. I'm not late today, yes?” 

Sid shakes his head and tries not to read too much into anything. “Nope. Right on time Mr. Mal—Zhenya.” Zhenya smiles goofily at him, and fusses around with Victoria's backpack for a minute. Is he...stalling? 

“Victoria tell me kids go to penalty box in your class when they bad. You hockey fan?” Zhenya asks. Sid laughs.

“Uh, yeah. Most people just call it the timeout corner, but. I grew up in Canada. Liking hockey is a national requirement.”

Zhenya grins. “You play?”

“Yeah, in a rec league. And I coach one of the local mini mite teams.”

“Tiny baby hockey players,” Zhenya says, looking delighted. 

“Yeah. A little wobbly sometimes. Still learning, but really enthusiastic. One time, my goalie got so excited he kept forgetting what he was supposed to do, and the ref finally had to pick him up, skate him halfway across the ice, and plunk him back in the crease.”

The way Zhenya’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs really hard is beautiful. “What about you girls?” he asks. “Gonna play hockey with Mr. Crosby?” Natalie wrinkles her nose but Victoria looks up at Sid worshipfully, nodding. 

“Mama says maybe I should do ‘figger skates,’ but I wanna skate with Mr. Crosby,” she says, and Zhenya ruffles her hair. 

“I buy you hockey skates while Mama is out of town, don't worry.” Natalie looks scandalized but Victoria squeals and hugs her uncle around the legs. Sid is unaffected, really he is.  

 

***

 

And when the Gonchars return from their trip, Sid doesn’t expect to see Zhenya again. And his remaining scraps of dignity won’t allow him to ask the girls about him, nevermind that Zhenya supposedly asked about  _ Sid.  _ He’s...not good with this kind of thing. Sid and flirtation go together like...two things liable to light on fire upon contact. And not in a sexy way. In the “oh god, please make it stop” kind of way. 

He tries to put Zhenya out of his mind. He has moderate success. Some days. 

And then, he’s at the local rink, trying to chivvy his team of miniature hockey players into some semblance of a passing drill, when he hears a familiar child’s voice shriek “Mr. Crosby, Mr. Crosby! I got skates!” from over by the bench. Sure enough, he sees Victoria waving excitedly at him, Zhenya holding her up so she can see over the boards. She’s waving a small hockey skate around so enthusiastically that she drops it. Sid admonishes his little hellions to hold off maiming themselves or each other for just one moment, and skates over to pick up Victoria’s skate and hand it to her.

 

***

 

Zhenya reminds himself that he is here to facilitate his goddaughter's hockey dreams, not to go weak-kneed at the sight of Sidney Crosby smoothly gliding over to them with the kind of nonchalant competence that has always gotten to Zhenya. Or when he hands Victoria her skate, and smiles his beautiful, crooked smile at her. Or when the ghost of the smile lingers on his mouth as he explains how sign-ups work and what other gear Victoria’s going to need. 

God.

 

***

 

Zhenya is as unsettling as before, what with his continued tallness, and handsomeness, and...everything-ness. Not to mention the low rumble of his voice and the way he’s—no, he’s not looking at Sid in any special way, he’s not. But, Sid can imagine what it might be like to have his full interest and attention, and it’s a heady idea. But. He doesn’t have time for this. So he makes sure Zhenya knows to go talk to Shelly at the front desk to sign Victoria up for skating lessons, and that he can probably get a coupon for the skate shop if he asks. 

“Rec league play here too?” Zhenya’s saying. 

“Yeah for sure, on Saturday nights,” Sid answers, feeling a flutter of nerves or excitement. “You interested in checking it out?”

“Yeah, I’m check out,” Zhenya says, and snickers a little. Then he honest to goodness gives Sid the up-down, a quick flick of his eyes. 

Sid wants to respond with something,  _ anything _ , cool and dignified, but just then a puck bounces off of his skate and a warbling “Coooaaach, Josh is being a  _ poop _ ” reminds him that he should probably go rescue his assistant coach before there’s a mutiny. 

“See you later then, Zhenya,” he says, and pivots abruptly and skates off to where Conor’s got a mini mite player hanging off of each arm. 

“Taking a break to get your flirt on?” Conor says, exasperated. Sid rolls his eyes

“Remember back when you didn’t sass me worse than my students?” 

Conor gives him a shit-eating grin. “Good times.” 

Sid sighs, and goes to separate Josh and Carter before their spat can go any further.

 

***

 

Damn Flower’s creepy goalie senses, anyway. He’s been giving Sid funny looks from the moment he’d picked Sid up to carpool to the rink. And now, he’s staring as if the way Sid’s taping his stick holds the secrets of the universe. Sid is trying to ignore him. Maybe if Sid ignores him long enough he’ll go... loosen everybody’s water bottle lids, or something. 

“You’re antsy. Why are you antsy,” Flower says, and it’s not so much a question as a demand for details. 

“I’m not ‘antsy’,” Sid says, making a face. “Who says antsy when not referring to first graders, anyway?”

“Hmmm,” Flower says, looking sage and knowing, which is bullshit. Sid refuses to engage further, and resumes his stick-taping. He has a routine, vague chance of Evgeni Malkin making an appearance or no. 

 

***

 

Zhenya hadn’t really thought things through. He’s running a little behind, and the rec team is mostly on the ice getting warmed up by the time he finishes getting all of his gear on. Which means he’s treated to a Sidney Crosby already flushed with exertion  and with hair already beginning to damply curl around his ears. He skates over to the bench as soon as he sees Zhenya there, and his smile is brilliant, and sweet. 

“Hey,” he says breathlessly. “You’re here!”

Zhenya’s brain has short-circuited a little and the English comes slow. 

“Yes. Took little while to get gear together. Not play for long time.”

“Glad you could come, though,” Sidney says, and then  _ blushes _ . Very fetchingly. Before Zhenya can find his tongue again, the goalie leaves the crease where he’d been stretching and skates over. 

“Hey Sid, who’s your friend?” he says, and grins like a shark behind his mask. 

“This is Zh— Evgeni Malkin. His niece is in my class.” 

“Goddaughter,” Zhenya clarifies, and reaches over to shake the goalie’s hand, after he gets his blocker off. “Nice to meet.” 

“Marc Andre. I work in the same building as Sid at the school. So did you guys meet at Parent’s Day, or something?” Marc Andre looks kind of thrilled at the idea. Zhenya glances at Sidney, wondering if he’s missing something here. Sidney seems to be trying to look nonchalant. 

“I pick up girls when Sergei and Ksenia on vacation, for anniversary. Meet Sidney, talk about hockey. I’m think it’s time maybe get on ice again.” 

“I’m sure you had great motivation,” Marc Andre replies, and there is definitely something going unsaid here because he sounds like he’s trying not to laugh and Sid is glaring absolute daggers at him. “Call me Flower, everyone does.”

“Call me Geno, easier for Americans.”

“I’m French-Canadian, but sure.” 

Sidney’s looking puzzled and he starts saying “Geno? I thought— ” but then there’s a good-natured shout of “You shitheads here for a hockey game, or what?” from the ice and he doesn’t get to finish.

 

***

 

Most guys in full gear kind of waddle, truth be told, before they make it onto the ice.

Not Zhenya. Of course he doesn't. He manages to  _ stalk _ . And Sid’s powers of concentration only get tested further when Zhenya hits the ice. He's incredible. Someone as big as he is, with arms and legs that long, has no business moving with the powerful grace that he does. He's a little rusty, but the underlying skill is clearly evident. 

Sid makes the fatal mistake of letting himself get a little too involved admiring Zhenya’s stick handling and nearly collides with Duper. Who has obviously been gossiping with Flower because he is also looking at Sid as if he's Duper’s new favorite form of entertainment. 

“ _ So, you like them tall, dark, and Russian, then _ ,” he chirps. At least he has the decency to do it in French. 

“I thought we were here to play hockey, not be interfering dicks,” Sid grouses, perhaps a little harshly. Duper doesn't take it to heart though. 

“I'm just so happy our Sid is finally growing up,” he says with false sweetness, before giving Sid a face wash. 

Sid needs new friends. 

 

***

 

Correction: Zhenya really, really hadn’t thought things through. 

Sidney Crosby-the-elementary-teacher is soft-spoken, a little shy, and adorably awkward. Sid the hockey player is a completely different person. He shouts, he shoves, he swears. And he’s obscenely good at hockey. He plays it with the intensity of a Stanley Cup final. It’s the third period, and Sidney’s gotten a stick to the face at some point, and he’s got a split lip. And Zhenya should really not be getting hot and bothered about Sidney, bloody-faced, leaning over the boards to scream profanity at some goon called Dubinsky on the opposing team. And yet. Fuck. Zhenya had been  _ certain _ that Sidney couldn’t be more attractive. 

He might have been staring a little, because he misses his turn to go over the boards, and his linemate needs to elbow him in the ribs. 

“Sorry,” Zhenya apologizes.

“Uh huh,” Kunitz, his winger, says. Zhenya doesn't have time to analyze how loaded that sounded before they’re swept back up into the game.

 

***

 

They crush the police department rec team. Sidney scores three goals and Zhenya gets one, plus an assist. Zhenya might have scored more, but Sidney is a decided distraction. And the team is...odd. At one point, he was forcibly sandwiched on the bench between two of the French-Canadians, and he thinks they asked him what his intentions were, but maybe that had been a misinterpretation of their accented English. Because obviously, Zhenya’s intentions are to win this hockey game _ , _ that they are  _ literally _ right in the middle of. What kind of a question is that. Oddball teammates aside, this plan proves successful. 

The locker room is loud and boisterous after, everyone’s spirits riding high on the win. Wads of sock tape get thrown, there is an attempt to put the smallest player into a garbage can, and this guy called Patric sets off some truly horrific singing. 

Eventually, they make their way outside. Sidney, red-cheeked and laughing, invites Zhenya along to the bar they’re headed to for post-win beer and nachos. Zhenya’s exhausted, and not a fan of American beer, but it would mean more time with Sidney. So he agrees to come. 

At the bar, Zhenya manages to slide into a booth next to Sidney. Flower slides in dramatically after him, plowing into Zhenya and plastering him up against Sid. “Oops,” Flower grins, and Zhenya still isn’t sure what his problem is. But Sidney, pressed warmly up against his other side, is way more interesting than weirdo goalies, so he lets it go. 

The conversation is loud, and all the rapidfire English is starting to blur together. Zhenya’s tired. But it’s good, sitting here, exhausted from a win. Eating greasy nachos and drinking terrible beer, with Sid leaning unconsciously back into the arm Zhenya’s slung against the back of the booth. There’s a neon light on in the window behind them, and the light washes blue and red across Sidney’s skin. Zhenya is probably staring again. Sidney, on the other hand, is dissecting a play across the table with Shearsy, his linemate and assistant mini mite coach. 

Most of the other guys have filtered over to the pool tables and the dartboard, but Sidney makes no move to join them. Zhenya is definitely not interested, that’s for sure. He wouldn’t mind the chance to actually talk to Sidney, get to know him, but his conversation with Shearsy doesn’t look like it’s going to end anytime soon. 

There’s help from an unexpected corner when Flower walks up and claps Shearsy aggressively on the shoulder. 

“Come on, kid. We need another person for pool.”

“But I was talking to Si—”

“Nope, you weren’t, up you get.” Flower then almost bodily hauls a confused Shearsy away. Then he turns around halfway to the pool tables and  _ winks _ at Zhenya. 

Oh. 

Sidney doesn’t notice. He just downs the rest of his beer, unfairly treating Zhenya to the flawless line of his throat and the sharp corner of his jaw. Zhenya mentally scrambles for something to say. Something charming, and in comprehensible English. 

“Your hockey best,” is what eventually comes out instead. Sidney’s ears burn red. 

“Oh, no,” he says, picking at the label of his beer. “But I do love it.”

Zhenya scoffs. “Oh yes, only hat trick, is nothing. Sidney Crosby only have lucky night, is fourth line bender.” Sidney laughs and Zhenya feels giddily pleased. At the laugh  _ and _ the successful usage of North American hockey slang.

“Well, what about you? Your hockey is—it’s amazing, Zhenya,” Sidney says, head tilted back against Zhenya’s arm to look him in the face. His eyes are wide and so fucking beautiful Zhenya can’t respond for a second. 

“I’m want to go pro, one day. But in Russia, my family was poor. Not possible.” Sidney’s expression goes soft in response. 

“I’m sorry.” He looks down at his hands, still picking at the beer label, and takes a deep breath. “Me, me too. They thought I might have. Gone pro.” 

Zhenya’s chest has gone warm and aching at the emotion in Sidney’s voice and the way his shoulders have tensed against Zhenya’s arm. “What happen?” He asks, and his voice is as gentle as he knows how to make it. 

“People aren’t kind, you know, to anyone who’s different. I stuck out, playing against older kids like I did, playing better than them. And I was an awkward kid. At one point, it got so bad, you know, people screaming at me from the bleachers, even parents of my own teammates, that my mom couldn’t take it anymore. I’ll never forget her crying in the car on the way home. She was just scared, and tired of me getting hurt. We’d been talking about maybe sending me to boarding school to get away from it all, but. I had a little sister who I wanted to watch grow up. I knew already that I was—um, different. That I’d never get to have things like a family, a marriage, if I went pro. So I decided to stop. Go to college. There were other factors, for sure, but that’s the short version.”

Zhenya feels like his chest’s been cracked open. He unconsciously curls his arm around Sidney’s shoulders. It’s all he can do, since he can’t travel back in time and do anything for young Sidney. 

“Anyway,” Sidney continues. “I went to college in the area here. I wanted to get out of Canada, get a change of scenery for a while.” 

“How become teacher?”

“Ha, well, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Then my college advisor, Dr. Lemieux, recommended I volunteer in a Big and Little Brothers mentoring program. And it was awesome.” Sidney’s looking down, and Zhenya can’t see his face. But he hears the smile in his voice. “So I went into teaching. I love it.” He looks up then, and smiles at Zhenya, and Zhenya can’t fight the wave of...something...that crests over him at the sight. 

“Sidney best,” is all he can say. Sid, predictably, reacts with self-effacing embarrassment, but Zhenya is having none of that. “Best,” he repeats, and squeezes Sid’s shoulders. “I know this. Victoria and Natalie say always.” This makes Sid laugh, and he seems to let himself sink further into Zhenya’s side. 

“Well, they’re pretty awesome themselves,” Sid says, and Zhenya thinks he might be more than a little in love.

 

***

 

It’s been such a great night. Sid always feels lighter than air after a win, and tonight’s just been...so good. Sidney might be a little buzzed. Just a little. It had been so nice, sitting in the curve of Zhenya’s arm, Zhenya’s voice a low rumble in his ear. He’d had a beer or two more than usual just as an excuse to stay there. 

And the way Zhenya’s arm had tightened around him at times? And the warmth in his eyes? Sid can’t be imagining this. 

They’re lingering in the parking lot, keys in hand but reluctant to get in their cars and leave. For some reason, the rest of the team had left fairly quickly, not hanging around to talk that much. Zhenya and Sid are alone, standing in a pool of light from a guttering streetlamp. It’s rained in the hour they spent in the bar, and the asphalt’s glittering with moisture. Zhenya’s laughing, telling some story about he and his brother getting into trouble together as children. Sid wants to kiss him. 

It must be written across his face, because Zhenya stops abruptly. 

“Sid,” he says, soft, and low. And, when has he started calling Sid that? 

And then he’s reaching out to brush his knuckles down Sid’s cheek in a gesture so intimate in its tenderness that it makes Sid’s breath stutter. His lips part in invitation and then— 

Then Zhenya kisses him. A little tentatively, and a little off-center. But Sid sighs into it and doesn’t hesitate to wind his arms around Zhenya’s neck, bring their bodies close together. He feels like he’s been wanting this since the moment he first laid eyes on Zhenya. 

Zhenya’s mouth is plush, and hot, and he’s skimming his hands down Sid’s sides and Sid’s world has narrowed to the heat of Zhenya’s body pressed against his and the soft, bitten-off sounds Zhenya’s probably not aware he’s making as he chases Sid’s mouth. 

Then his hands slide into Sid’s hair and he angles his head to deepen the kiss and Sid shudders. Zhenya’s lips find Sid’s jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. Dimly, Sid’s aware that Zhenya’s backed him up against a car that’s probably not either of theirs, but he’s finding it impossible to care. 

Until Zhenya hitches up one of Sid’s knees to slot himself more firmly into the cradle of Sid’s hips, and the resulting movement as he grinds down sets off the alarm of the car he’s got Sid pinned against. 

They jump apart. Sid’s heart is pounding from the shock and the kiss both, and for a moment they just stare at each other as the  _ WEEoooWEEooo _ of the alarm blares into the night. Sid is the first to start snickering, and soon both of them are doubled over laughing. 

Zhenya snags Sid with an arm around his waist, and Sid sways into him. Zhenya busses his temple hard once, twice, then rests his cheek against Sid’s hair.  Sid can feel his shoulders still shaking a little with laughter. 

“Sid. Come home with me?” he asks.

And Sid goes.

 

***

 

Sunday morning finds Sid leaning against the counter in Zhenya’s sunlit kitchen, sipping very sweet tea and wearing pajama pants that are too long and a ratty t-shirt that’s too tight. He blinks, sleepily contemplating the fiberglass shark Zhenya’s inexplicably got up on the wall, while Zhenya himself putters around fixing them some breakfast. He feels content to his bones. Zhenya keeps glancing at him and smiling, and each time he looks freshly delighted at the sight of Sid and his bedhead lounging in his kitchen. 

Suddenly, the doorbell rings. Zhenya groans, and looks apologetic. 

“I can’t believe I’m forget. Girls live close, come over Sunday mornings.  Eat cereal parents won’t buy, watch cartoon. I can send away?”

In for a penny, Sid thinks. “No, it’s ok, I don’t mind.”

“Best,” Zhenya says, and his eyes crinkle with his grin. He goes to answer the door, and there’s a sudden burst of mostly Russian babble, the only words of which Sid can pick out are “Princess Sophia” and “pop tarts.” There’s a pattering of feet, and then Natalie and Victoria burst into the kitchen, only to skid to a wide-eyed stop at the sight of him. 

“Mr. Crosby!” Victoria cries, stunned. “What are you doing  _ here _ ?” They both look gobsmacked, as if a unicorn had materialized in their uncle’s kitchen. Sid smothers a laugh. He remembers how weird it was the first time he ran into a teacher outside of school. Granted, it had been in the grocery store, not in a family member’s house, but still. 

Natalie is looking suspicious. She glances back and forth between Sid and Zhenya, who’s come up behind them. “Uncle Zhenya. Is Mr. Crosby your boyfriend?” she asks, her tone indicating she’ll brook no waffling. Sid looks at Zhenya, and he’s smiling again, soft, and happy. 

“Do you want, Sid?” he asks.

“Yeah, I do,” Sid answers, smiling helplessly in return. Zhenya lights up and crosses the kitchen to press a chaste kiss to Sid’s mouth to twin shrieks of disgust (Natalie), and delight (Victoria). 

“Stay?” Zhenya says. “Eat sugar, watch kid’s show? Go to park later?”

“Yes,” Sid says, threading his fingers through Zhenya’s. “Yes.”

 

*** 

 

There a special kind of hush to an ice rink in the early morning before it’s filled with people. 

Sid only barely managed to get here at his usual time. Zhenya isn’t a morning person, and making coffee and breakfast is extra difficult when your 6’ 3” boyfriend insists upon draping himself all over you, grumbling the entire time. Very difficult, especially when said boyfriend keeps pressing sleepy kisses to your neck, and hair, and muttering things into your ear in Russian about what he’d do for you if only you’d just please, for the love of god, go back to bed with him. 

“Zhenya. You know I need to set up for the kids. There’s a new drill we need to work on.” Zhenya had only tightened his arms around Sid’s waist and sighed into the nape of Sid’s neck. “Want to come with, and help?” Sid asked, and it was a strategic question. Tiny children and hockey are two of Zhenya’s all time favorite things, after his mother, Sid, and impractically large dogs. 

“Fine,” was the fake-resentful reply at last, and so this morning Sid has someone to help with the myriad of things he needs to do before practice starts.  

Well, “help,” is maybe a bit of a stretch. Zhenya’s backed him into the boards for a kiss (“Would you cut it out? The kids will be here any minute!”), stolen a cone and played keep-away with it, and tried to talk Sid into trying out a figure skating spin. He’s a nuisance, and he’s  _ terrible _ , Sid tries to tell himself, but he’s about as successful as he is at stifling his honest-to-god giggles at Zhenya’s nonsense. Zhenya looks inordinately pleased with himself about it. 

Then there’s the familiar noise from the lobby, heralding the arrival of Sid’s kids. First out is Victoria, a little wobbly still but beyond enthusiastic. 

“Uncle Zhenya! You came with Uncle Sid today!” She waves wildly with both hands, stick in the air, and Zhenya has to swoop in and catch her before she falls over. He sweeps her up into his arms, teasing her in Russian. Sid watches them both, and lets himself imagine, just for a moment, a child that calls them something else cradled in Zhenya’s arms. 

It’s not where he’d ever seen himself ending up, he thinks, but he's so happy he can't imagine it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my own experiences with kids in this age group, and the actual fax Hot Eastern-European Uncle who comes into my work every Saturday to dutifully pick his nephew up. You rock, Hot Eastern-European Uncle. 
> 
> I want to promise my next fic will not just be "Sid! And! Geno! And! BABIES!" but I've got a problem, y'all. 
> 
> Beta'd by [rhein](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhien/pseuds/rhien). She remains Queen of Narrative Nuance, Tamer of Wild Verb Tenses, Cheerleader Par Excellence. 
> 
> Title is from Oh Darling's "Prettiest Thing." 
> 
> You can find me as [creaturesofnarrative ](http://creaturesofnarrative.tumblr.com/) (main) and [knifeshoeoreofight](http://knifeshoeoreofight.tumblr.com/) (hockey sideblog) on Tumblr, and as RainyForecast on Twitter. Come say hi and cry with me about how hockey both real and fictional has eaten our lives.


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